Nautilus eBook

The monkeys for answer leaped on their master’s
shoulder, and chattered, and peered round into his
face.

“The company of this schooner, attention!
Behold Colorado, who comes to be my son! He sails
with us, he receives kindness from you all, he is in
his home. Instruction you will give him in ways
of the sea, and he becomes in all things your brother.
Am I understood?”

The different members of the crew received this intelligence
each in his own way. Rento advanced, and shaking
John cordially by the hand, assured him with honest
warmth that he was proper glad to see him, and that
he hoped they should be good friends.

Franci smiled like an angel, and the moment the Skipper’s
back was turned, made frightful grimaces at the boy,
and threatened his life. But John was too happy
to be afraid of Franci. Going boldly up to him,
he asked,—­

“Why don’t you like me, and why do you
want to kill me? I never did you any harm, and
I should like to be friends, please.”

The Spaniard looked at him sidelong out of his soft,
sleepy eyes.

“Have you understanding?” he asked presently.
“Have you intelligence to accept the idea of
a person of poetry, of soul?”

“I am not of nature murderous. A dove,
a lamb at sport in the meadow, such is the heart of
Franci. But—­behold me desolated on
this infernal schooner. Torn by my parents from
my home, from warm places of my delight, from various
maidens, all enamoured of my person, I am sent to
be a sailor. A life of horror, believe me who
say it to you! Wetness, cold and work; work,
cold and wetness! Behold the sea! may it be accursed,
and dry up at the earliest moment! I come here,
on this so disastrous voyage. Have I poetry,
think you, on board this vessel? Is the pig-faced
armadillo yonder a companion for me, for Franci?
Is my beauty, the gentleness and grace of my soul
appreciated here? even the Patron, a person in some
ways of understanding, has for me only the treatment
of a child, of a servant. Crushed to the ground
by these afflictions, how do I revenge myself?
How do I make possible the passage of time in this
wooden prison? I make for myself the action, I
make for myself the theatre. Born for the grace
of life, deprived of it, let me have the horrors!
In effect, I would not hurt the safety of a flea; in
appearance, I desire blood, blood, blood!”

He shrieked the last words aloud, and leaped upon
the boy, his eyes glaring like a madman’s; but
John was on his own ground now; his eyes shone with
appreciation.

“That’s splendid!” he cried.
“Blood! Oh, I wish I could do it like that!
I say, we can play all kind of things, can’t
we? We’ll be pirates—­only good
pirates,—­and we’ll scour the seas,
and save all the shipwrecked people, won’t we?
And you shall be the captain (or you might call it
admiral, if you liked the sound better, I often do),
and I will be the mate, or the prisoners, or the drowning
folks, just as you like. I love to play things.”